[My song died,
a note gone to ash.
My flageolette got an ague.
My shot harp sat
in a bed of nails.]
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 30 January 1659/60.
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Just realized you are following him through the year. What a rich mine is Pepys: great choice for an erasure subject.
Yes, so he’s turning out to be. Whether I can keep this going for a whole year (much less ten years), who knows. I’ve given myself permission to skip entries if I can’t find poems in them, but so far I haven’t had to.
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Life is a spell so exquisite that everything conspires to break it. — Emily Dickinson
Life is a spell so exquisite that everything conspires to break it.